


Aviators and Sailors

by tanyart



Category: Temeraire - Novik
Genre: Childhood, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-01
Updated: 2009-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-04 22:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some twenty-five years ago, William Laurence loses his first command to strange little boy with a ferocious dragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aviators and Sailors

At nine years of age, Will reasoned that a Navy man wouldn’t ever need to worry about uneven roads, or wet ditches, or crooked wheels, or stupid horses. Obviously, a ship needed none of those tiresome things, and only required the sea and its breeze.

He was, however, forced to admit that the faults of a carriage did well to release him from its stuffy and cramped prison, so that he could scamper out and curiously inspect the cause behind the loud crack of wood and interesting new curse George had uttered (much to their mother’s displeasure).

The carriage was tilted at an odd angle and Will could see that a wooden piece beneath it had broken. Though all the wheels were still intact, he had heard his older brother say something about a snapped axis. Will didn’t listen much after that, and was curiously watching his father and the coachman ride off to the nearest town with the horses. As soon as they were out of sight, he was quick to take advantage of his father’s absence to fish out his ship—a beautifully crafted toy with a white sail, and French name he couldn’t pronounce.

“Frederick, do mind your brother,” Lady Allendale called from the shade of the trees where she was fanning herself idly and scolding George.

Fred readily complied, but as soon as his mother’s attention was elsewhere, threw Will an irritated look, not at all happy at being interrupted from his book. Nevertheless, he got up and plodded off the road after him and asked with exasperation where they were going.

“There’s a stream nearby, I hear it,” Will explained, already making his ship bob enticingly in the air.

Fred shook his head with an expression that Will would later on in life recognize as mild exasperation and concern. “You shouldn’t get your hopes for that kind of path. You know perfectly well what father thinks of it, and mother only gave you that boat to humor you.”

“Ship,” corrected Will, and Fred sighed.

The little stream proved to be nearly perfect with its pebbled edges and clear water that did not even go above Will’s ankles, much to Fred’s dismay at having to later explain his younger brother’s wet shoes and stockings to their mother. Giving up, Fred sat down well away from the water and opened his book. Will placed the ship into the water, already constructing an epic battle, though it was difficult to have one without a foe.

Turning around, he called, “Fred, would you like to—“

“I am doing marvelously well from where I am, thank you,” Fred drawled, “I would like to not ruin another book on account of your splashing.”

After spending another minute indignantly denying any sort of childish activity, Fred exasperatedly conceded to call the activity, ‘making very large and wild monsoons’, much to Will’s smug delight. He was then shooed off, but not without a final warning, “And for the love of all things, pray do not get_ too_ wet.”

After absent promise that was immediately discarded the moment it was made, Will wandered down the little stream, enough to keep in sight of Fred but well out of reasonable earshot if the monsoons were sufficiently thunderous and deafening. (“What did I say about splashing? And must you scream so?” Fred shouted, and of course Will could not hear him.) His ship sailed through the storms, from England to China—a half submerged rock, and a protruding tree root---having disregarded that all of Africa was in the way, and that sailing over land was not the least bit impossible.

And somewhere between Istanbul and Prussia, a shadow loomed over his head, and said, “_Whoosh_!”

Will glanced up quickly, expecting Fred to be doing him a mischief, and found that it was not his bookish older brother, but a little boy with dark hair, and wide blue eyes. Startled, Will sat back, landing with a tiny splash into the water; it wasn’t that the boy was very threatening, but the dirty stuffed stocking being waved in his face had given him some cause for alarm.

“What is _that_?” Will exclaimed, manners forgotten, and tried to push away the offending object.

The younger boy drew back with a grin to reveal a missing bottom tooth. “My dragon,” he proclaimed proudly.

Will stared for a moment, and found that if he tilted his head at the right angle, the stocking did indeed resemble a misshapen dragon with mismatched eyes. “Oh,” he said, politely. After a moment of strained silence and discovering that the other boy had nothing more to say, he stood up and offered his hand, “I’m Will.”

“John,” the boy replied cheerfully, and shook his hand with exaggerated movement. Will bore this with great patience, taking a quick look behind his shoulder to see Fred shrugging indifferently and going back to his book.

“Are you lost?” Will asked, peering into the rest of the woods and seeing no one else in sight.

“Why would I be?” John replied back, more perplexed than impolite, “I live over there—“ and waved a hand into some general direction, “—but may I join you?” He was looking very intently at Will’s ship.

“Yes, of course,” Will said, unable to keep from smiling. Though the John was likely several years younger than him, playmates had been rare with both his older brothers being more obsessed with silly things like girls or, in Fred’s case, books. He readied his ship, pointing menacingly towards the dragon, “And what is the name of this evil creature attacking my ship?”

John squatted down, allowing the dragon to hover in the air, and said, “He’s not an evil dragon at all! He’s mine, and I’m his captain.” The dragon swooped down, the tip of its wing—or perhaps the tail—just grazing over the ship’s white sails.

“An aviator?” Will blinked, unsure of what to say to next. Most of the other boys he had met often talked about being in the Army, or the Navy, but hardly ever the Corps. It was never said out loud, but Will had thought the Aerial Corps was something of a low soldierly career. And all the dragons he had played battle with were always his enemies.

John nodded and, with great enthusiasm, said, “My mother says that when I’m old enough, I’ll be going to the Corps.”

“Ah,” Will said, still confused. He tactfully tried to change the subject, “It’ll be the Navy for me, if my father would allow it.”

“Oh, that is terrible,” John said earnest sympathy, “Bring a sailor sounds awful.”

Will nearly fell back into the water; he could not believe he had heard. “Well, the Corps does not sound very nice either,” he grumbled, and then snapped, “Careful, you’ll break the main mast!”

John held his dragon up, looking apologetic. Will had to remind himself that the other boy was younger, but suddenly, all coherent thought flew right from his mind when John proceeded to throw a handful of dirt and bright, red autumn leaves into his face and ship.

“My dragon breathes _fire_!” John announced loudly, and tossed another clump at Will.

“_What?_”

“Dragon beats ship!” John cried triumphantly, and Will had to snatch his toy away, lest it be smashed by John’s victory jig. He was very tempted to vehemently object his defeat, since the whole situation was quite unfair, but Will prudishly decided that it would be undignified to squabble against a boy half his age and size.

Fred was laughing from his spot, fully ignoring Will’s glare. Closing the book, he stood up and gestured for Will, “We should head back.”

Will, all too glad to not have John gloating in front of him, retrieved his toy, shaking out the dirt with a frown. “My congratulations,” he eventually conceded, stiffly, because if he was to meet defeat, he should be graceful about it.

Though it didn’t help with John’s grin so smug, “Thank you. We’ll play again next time?”

Will doubted it; his family did not travel this way often, but he smiled anyway, “I look forward to our next battle.”

They shook hands again, and Will caught up with Fred, who looked in despair at his wet clothes.

“Aviators,” Will muttered.

“Still keen on the Navy?” Fred asked, shaking his head, and attempted to wring out the water from Will’s sleeve.

Will scowled, clutching his ship to his chest. “_Yes_.”

Fred sighed, “Well, thank goodness. I shouldn’t like to think what father would say if you wanted to join the Corps instead.”

And just because it was Fred who had said it, Will grinned slyly.

“Well, perhaps I would like to join after all.”

  


* * *

“And there you have it,” Lieutenant Granby said from behind the latticework of the flight-table, “Dragon beats ship!”

He sat back, smug, gesturing to the modified formation that they had been working on. Temeraire was quick to express his approval, but the captain was oddly silent. Granby glanced up from the diorama to see Laurence staring at him with a slightly perplexed expression. Though his frown was more thoughtful than disapproving, Granby wondered briefly if he had said something offensive, or if the new formation was a complete tactical disaster. He paused to gather his bemused thoughts then hesitantly suggested, “Well, unless the ship is… made of prodigiously strong… wood?”

That seemed to rouse Laurence, and he replied, “No, no. The formation is sound,” and still looked as puzzled as Granby felt.

“Laurence, are you tired? Perhaps you should get some rest,” Temeraire said, worriedly, even though today’s training had not been overly strenuous, and it was still early in the evening.

Laurence was quiet for a quick second, and Granby thought he saw a flicker of disbelief cross his expression before it disappeared into a somewhat secretive smile. Before he could even begin to decipher what _that_ had meant, Laurence stood up from his seat, “Perhaps I should. Thank you, Mr. Granby. We will try out the new pattern tomorrow, and—“ he gestured to the scattered miniature carvings of the ships and dragons on the table, “—I look forward to our next battle.”

“Er, yes,” Granby answered, not knowing what to make of the last bit, “Good night, sir.”

There was that enigmatic smile again; he felt as if he was being left out on a joke. When Laurence had made his leave and was out of sight behind Temeraire’s body, Granby shook his head.

“Sailors,” he muttered, and cleared the flight-table.

 


End file.
